The Sandpiper
by Robert Peterson
She was six years old when I first met her on
the beach near where I live. I drive
to this beach, a distance of three or four miles, whenever the world begins
to close in on me.
She was building
a sandcastle
or something
and looked
up, her
eyes as blue as the sea.
"Hello," she said.
I answered with a nod, not really in the mood to bother with a small child.
"I'm building," she said.
"I see that. What is it?" I asked, not really caring.
"Oh, I don't know, I just like the feel of sand."
That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes. A sandpiper glided by.
"That's a joy," the child said.
"It's a what?"
"It's a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy."
The bird went gliding down the beach. Good-bye joy, I muttered to myself, hello
pain, and turned to walk on. I was depressed, my life seemed completely
out of balance.
"What's your name?" She wouldn't give up.
"Robert," I answered. "I'm Robert Peterson."
"Mine's Wendy... I'm six."
"Hi, Wendy." She giggled. "You're funny," she
said.
In spite of my gloom, I laughed too and walked on. Her musical giggle
followed me.
"Come again, Mr. P," she called. "We'll have another happy day."
After a few days of a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, and an
ailing mother. The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out
of the dishwater.
I need a sandpiper, I said to myself, gathering up my coat. The
ever-changing balm of the seashore awaited me. The breeze was
chilly but I
strode along, trying to recapture the serenity I needed.
"Hello, Mr. P," she said. "Do you want to play?"
"What did you have in mind?" I asked, with a twinge of annoyance.
"I don't know, you say."
"How about charades?" I asked sarcastically.
The tinkling laughter burst forth again. "I don't know what that
is."
"Then let's just walk."
Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness of her face. "Where do you live?"
I asked.
"Over there." She pointed toward a row of summer cottages.
Strange, I thought, in winter.
"Where do you go to school?" "I don't go to school. Mommy says we're on
vacation."
She chattered little girl talk as we strolled up the beach, but my mind was on
other things. When I left for home, Wendy said it had been a happy day. Feeling
surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed.
Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a state of near panic. I was
in no
mood to even greet Wendy. I thought I saw her mother on the porch and
felt like demanding she keep her child at home.
"Look, if you don't mind," I said crossly when Wendy caught up with me, "I'd rather
be alone today." She seemed unusually pale and out of breath.
"Why?" she asked.
I turned to her and shouted, "Because my mother
died!" and thought, My God, why
was I saying this to a little child?
"Oh," she said quietly, "then this is a bad day."
"Yes," I said, "and yesterday and the day before and--oh, go away!"
"Did it hurt?" she inquired.
"Did what hurt?" I was exasperated with her, with myself.
"When she died?"
"Of course it hurt!" I snapped, misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself.
I strode
off.
A month or so after that, when I next went to the beach, she wasn't there. Feeling
guilty, ashamed and admitting to myself I missed her, I went up to the
cottage after my walk and knocked at the door. A drawn looking young
woman with honey-colored hair opened the door.
"Hello," I said, "I'm Robert Peterson. I missed your little girl today and wondered
where she was."
"Oh yes, Mr. Peterson, please come in. Wendy spoke of you so much.
I'm afraid I allowed her to bother you. If she
was a nuisance,
please, accept my apologies."
"Not at all -- she's a delightful child." I
said, suddenly realizing that I meant
what I had just said.
"Wendy died last week, Mr. Peterson. She had
leukemia. Maybe she didn't tell you."
Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. I had to catch my breath.
"She loved this beach so when she asked to come, we couldn't say no. She
seemed so much better here and had a lot of what she called happy
days. But the
last few
weeks, she declined rapidly..." Her voice faltered, "She left something
for you .. if only I can find it. Could
you wait a moment while I look?"
I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for something to say to this lovely young
woman. She handed me a smeared envelope with "MR. P"
printed in bold childish
letters. Inside was a drawing in bright crayon hues -- a yellow
beach, a blue sea, and
a brown bird. Underneath was carefully printed:
A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY.
Tears welled up in my eyes and a heart that had
almost forgotten to love opened wide. I took Wendy's mother in my arms.
"I'm so sorry, I'm
so
sorry, I'm
so sorry," I
muttered over and over, and we wept together. The precious little picture is framed
now and hangs in my study. Six words -- one for each year of her life --
that speak
to me of harmony, courage, and undemanding love.
A gift from a child with sea blue eyes and hair the color of sand -- who
taught me the gift of love.
NOTE: This is a true story sent out by Robert Peterson. It happened over 20 years
ago and the incident changed his life forever. It serves as a reminder to
all of us that we need to take time to enjoy living and life and each
other. The price of hating other human beings is loving oneself less.
Life is so complicated, the hustle and bustle of everyday traumas can make us
lose focus about what is truly important or what is only a momentary
setback or crisis. This week, be sure to give your loved ones
an extra hug, and by all
means, take
a moment...even if it is only ten seconds, to stop and smell the roses.
This comes from someone's heart, and is shared with many and now I share it with
you.
May God Bless everyone that receives this! There are NO coincidences!
Everything that happens to us happens for a reason. Never
brush aside anyone as
insignificant. Who knows what they can teach us? I
wish for you, a sandpiper !!
